It Started With A Riding Crop
by MadPineapple
Summary: Sherlock's behaviour affects everyone around him. This could also be the case of Molly Hooper.


Sherlock's behaviour affects everyone around him. Some are more vulnerable while others, despite having a tough shell are still affected by it, but in a smaller proportion.

This could also be the case of Molly. Even after working at the morgue for so long and seeing and doing enough unsightly things, nothing could have prepared her for that too large, almost lecherous grin that Sherlock had. And the words made her shudder. 'We'll start with the riding crop.' It had been her moment to doubt the choice. But she didn't. And she should have.

He is quite proficient in using that crop, swinging it hard, mercilessly onto the dead body, marking it with welts. But it was hardly the body that mattered to her. He had a certain grace as he moved, frantic and furious, unleashed. The crop whistled through the air only to land with a sickening crack. And that made her insides twist in something akin to fear, but a pleasurable kind of fear. He is passionate, almost carnal in the way his body writhes, his muscles tighten and he delivers the hit. And she can do nothing but sigh wistfully.

Weeks later she still find herself plagued by pleasurable nightmares of him trying the whip on her, her back taking the hits and her body shivering with pleasure. It's always during these nights that she considers getting a lover.

But her salvation comes through her e-mail. A certain friend of hers shares a link.

Irene Adler. The Woman. Dominatrix.

It had piqued her interest.

Hours later after research and a good bout of thinking she sends an e-mail asking for a session. It comes as a surprise when hours later she receives an invitation, an address and a phone number.

* * *

When knocking at the door, her mind flutters in between doubt and certainty. She can still leave; she tries to delude herself. That is until a beautiful redhead opens the door and offers her a knowing look.

" Miss Adler will be downstairs in a few minutes," she says sotto voce, and offers Molly a seat. And she sits down, fidgeting, nervously playing with the buttons of her white silk blouse. She went out of her way to look good. She had put on silk and velvet, gave her usual flax hair a good fluff, and added make up. Nothing flashy, but simple natural colours.

Her heart was pounding, anticipation clouding her mind.

The click of heels and another sound, a gentle whisper of leather through air, the susurrus of fabric.

She looks up sharply, only to see Her, The Woman. And such a beautiful one she is. The kind that turns peoples heads yet acts with suck nonchalance as if she doesn't even realize how beautiful she is.

She is the same as Sherlock.

And Molly wants to scold herself for bringing him up again.

She has the same intelligence shining in her eyes. The formal hair-do does nothing to erase the pure eroticism of her apparition. She is dressed in nothing but a poison green négligée, the lace doing a poor job of hiding her beautiful body. Black stockings and brand shoes, Laboutin if she were to judge by the red soles. And ripe red lips.

And Molly looks at her, like a deer caught in the headlights, her eyes wide, a soft blush sneaking over her cheeks. And The Woman laughs, delighted.

"Now this is interesting. You requested a session. " She enters the room, leaves the leather riding crop on the table and sits on the armchair, drawing her legs under her, gently removing her shoes.

"I don't get enough innocent ones. " She smirks, pinning Molly with her green gaze. " What could be the reason a girl like you requests the services of a dominatrix?" When Molly remains silent, too entranced in the way she moves, feline and fluid, the way she holds herself, regal as if she isn't barely dressed, Irene laughs again.

"Tongue tied? I have the perfect solution for that." And swiftly she stands, towers over Molly and presses blood red lips on hers. Moments later when she pulls away, Molly is beet red, eyes downcast and breath just the slightest bit harder.

The Woman slides on top of her, making the darling look up the slightest bit afraid and all but ready to bolt up and run. A hand sliding through her hair, gentle, tender is what keeps her rooted.

"Don't be like this, darling, I'm not going to bite you. Unless you want me to." It's a veiled promise for better things the night promises.


End file.
